


The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

by boom_slap, dashwood



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bad Dirty Talk, Canonical Character Death, Flirting and banter, Fluff, Ghosts, Guest cameos by other characters, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pining, Pizza, Swearing, The occasional crack, Violence, prompt fills, self-insert prostitute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:54:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24840382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: A collection of stand-alone prompt fills from twitter and tumblr. There are two interpretations to each prompt — find out which one of us has her mind in the gutter, and who jumped aboard the angst train (the answer may surprise you).
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 106
Kudos: 154





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I bullied boom_slap into doing prompts with me, mainly because I am _fascinated_ by her writing. I just wanted to see how differently we'd interpret the same prompt, and I think, between the two of us, we came up with a delightful combination! Thank you to everyone on twitter and tumblr who has sent us prompts - we didn't get around to writing up all of them yet, but there may be a second round. - 🏃🌳
> 
> I just wanted to add that doing this challenge with dashwood is the best thing ever, as I've been obsessed with her works. Also, a few words to the fandom: y'all are fucked up and you're giving me anxiety. Buckle up for a wild ride! Also, don't believe dashwood. She didn't have to bully me because I screamed 'YES' immediately. - 💥🤦
> 
>  _Twitter_ : [dashwood](https://twitter.com/sorrydearie)| [boom_slap](https://twitter.com/boom_slap)  
>  _Tumblr_ : [dashwood](http://www.sorrydearie.tumblr.com/)| [boom_slap](https://czpla.tumblr.com/)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I thought imaginary friends were supposed to be nice or at least friendly…

**dashwood**

_Punishment_ , Sergio had called it. Ample retribution for his transgression, for his disobedience. And well, Martín supposed that at some level, this was exactly what he deserved. To be stranded – penniless, his pockets empty of gold, with nothing but his guilt to keep him company. 

His mind had already started to cannibalize itself, torn apart by the same memories spinning like a broken record through his mind. Nairobi’s death, the pity in Sergio’s eyes, Helsinki’s heart bleeding out whenever Martín pushed him away. 

Andrés turning his back on him, leaving, leaving, gone. 

Forever. 

Sergio had dumped Martín in this hellhole, this beggarly cabin in the middle of nowhere. There was nothing but woods around for kilometers, trees looming over him like ancient specters. Closing in on him, dark and imposing. It made Martín feel like a scared little boy again, pouring himself into a cupboard so he’d escape the drunken rage of his father, the strained giggles of his mother. The pain. 

There was nothing here to distract him. To keep his mind from wandering, from slip-slipping. It wouldn’t be long, he knew, until he was a shell of himself. An empty vessel, longing to be filled, yet unable to hold anything. He was broken beyond repair, and maybe Sergio had been right to abandon him, after all. 

At least Sergio had been benevolent enough to leave Martín with plenty of alcohol. Enough to drown his sorrows, to drown himself if he so wished. Maybe it was an act of kindness – the same one afforded to outlaws or pirates stranded on a lonely island: _there’s no way for you to come out of this alive, but here is a pistol with a single bullet lodged in its chamber. You know the drill._

Needless to say, by the third day of this imposed isolation, Martín was already halfway there. He was spiraling towards rock bottom, alarmingly fast. Time was running through his fingers like sand, turning into a poisonous mass that made it impossible to wade through. His dreams stalked him by day, turning shadows into Nairobi and Sergio and Gandia. 

Sometimes, Andrés graced him with his presence, taunting him, mocking him, torturing him. 

Calling Martín weak and pitiful and pathetic, and telling him that he would never be— 

“Happy now?” 

Martín blinked his eyes open. His whole world was spinning like a merry-go-round, and his stomach churned as he felt a wave of nausea hit him full-on. 

“Wha—?” 

There was a huff of laugh, cold and unamused, and Martín groaned as he sat up and turned towards the sound. Towards Andrés. 

He looked just like Martín remembered him. The regal tilt of his head, the commanding posture, the little lines at the corners of his eyes – the ones Martín would have loved to brush with his lips, to mark them as his, a creation of his own making, a testament to the many times he’d made Andrés laugh. 

“Is this what you’ve been up to while I was gone?” Andrés asked. He sounded disappointed, and Martín wanted to _whine_. “You reek like a distillery. It’s disgusting.” 

Martín moaned, and slumped back onto the bed. 

“I thought imaginary friends were supposed to be nice,” he murmured to himself. “Or at least friendly. A comforting presence, and all that.” 

“We get what we deserve,” Andrés said, and Martín nodded blindly along. Andrés was right, after all. Martín didn’t deserve warmth and affection. That wasn’t how his life worked, how any of this worked. 

He felt hands grasp his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin as they dragged him off the bad and towards the bathroom. Martín stumbled and threw his hands out of brace himself against the wall as he was shoved unceremoniously into the shower stall. He blinked once, twice, halfway through a third time when the shower turned on and a rush of ice-cold water poured down on him. 

Martín cursed, suddenly sober. 

“What the fuc—” 

Hands cupped their cheek, their heat a welcome distraction from the freezing water. They gently pushed his face up, angling it until his eyes met Andrés, dark and penetrating. As if they saw right through him, right into his soul, his heart, his mind. 

Martín's breath hitched in his throat as his heart gave a traitorous flutter, hopeful and eager. This vision – born of madness and bred of longing, Martín was sure – seemed unimaginably real. 

“You’re going to be okay,” Andrés said, and Martín whimpered. No, he thought with a shake of his head. This wasn't how this worked. Where were the biting insults, the sharp words, the derision? Martín knew how to cope with that, he’d had years of practice. But this... this was different. It was unbearably cruel, even for his own standards. 

“I’m going to take care of you,” Andrés went on. Martín squeezed his eyes shut as a strangled sob tore itself from his throat. “You’re going to be okay, Martín. I'll make it right again. Trust me, one last time.” 

And Martín nodded. For once, he believed the words. 

**boom_slap**

“Why would you ever steal from another patient, Sergio?”

“He was being mean about it! Just because you get nice things, you shouldn’t gloat.”

The nurse sighs deeply and Sergio rolls his eyes. He knows he’s right - he might be eleven, but he’s not an idiot. 

“Alright, but why steal it? You could’ve just talked to Leo about it.”

“Andrés and Martín say that stupid people are hopeless and it’s better not to waste time on them.”

“Again with the- say, I thought imaginary friends were supposed to be nice, or at least friendly?”

Sergio gives her an innocent smile in return, shrugging. 

Nights at the hospital are lonely and the stench of death is all the more present, but Sergio isn’t afraid. He keeps glancing at the clock in his tiny room, the book in his hand interesting but not nearly interesting enough to keep his attention for long. 

Finally, there’s some rustling behind the window that he’d opened fifteen minutes ago. He hears a quiet hiss followed by a curse, and a grin spreads over his face. 

It widens when he sees his brother’s face and then disappears as Andrés falls onto the floor with a loud thud. 

“What the fuck?” Andrés spits at Martín who’s climbing over the windowsill. 

“I told you to move!”

“Be quiet!” Sergio begs. He jumps out of the bed and runs to the door, where listens for a while before sighing and turning back to the two. 

He wonders what the nurses would have said if they ever saw the pair. They do look a little bit like some mischievous demons, both of them lanky, but somehow elegant in the way they hold themselves. Their eyes are shining in the dimly lit room and they’re wearing matching, sly smirks. 

Andrés crosses the room and pulls Sergio into a hug; he relaxes against him instantly, the feeling of security one associates with home washing over him. 

“Look,” once the three of them are seated cross-legged on the bed, Martín turns his pockets inside-out causing a bunch of expensive, high-quality sweets to fall onto the covers. “That’s surely better than the shitty hospital food, huh?”

“Where did you get that?” Sergio asks, taking one of the chocolate bars and unwrapping it with a smile. 

“It’s our sweet secret,” Andrés says and both of them chuckle. Sergio doesn’t ask; he knows that neither his brother nor his friend - boyfriend? - are particularly fond of the law. They don’t like paying for things, to put it simply. 

“How is the rich kid and his gameboy?” Andrés asks, reaching for a praline. Sergio shrugs. 

“I took it and buried it in the garden.”

Martín grins, the scabs on his lip cracking; he seems not to care. 

“Did he throw a tantrum?” he asks, wiggling excitedly. 

“Of course.”

“Was it funny?” Andrés inquires, his gaze fiery. 

“Yes,” Sergio smiles a little shyly, making the other two laugh. Then, Andrés straightens his back, clearing his throat to draw attention. 

“Look,” he says, suddenly serious. It’s impressive how a seventeen year old can make himself look _regal_. “If he gives you any more trouble, we’ll pay him a visit.”

“You?” Sergio stares at him, then turns to look at Martín, who winks. 

“I can punch a kid,” he says. “I don’t care.”

Sergio would call them his guardian angels, if it wasn’t for the fact that they both look and talk as if they’ve crawled out of hell. He doesn’t really mind, though. If lonely and poor, one learns to appreciate having guardian devils. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: When I said I liked Pretty Woman (the movie), this is not what I meant…

**boom_slap**

“Andrés. When I said I liked _Pretty Woman_ , this is not what I meant…”

“What? How come? I thought you wanted a pretty woman for your birthday?”

The prostitute looks, for the lack of any other word, bored, as she glances between Andrés and Martín. Martín has to admit she’s not dressed like a common whore, she’s not too provocative and even yes, she is quite beautiful. However, he still doesn’t understand what is she doing in their hotel room.

“I meant that I wanted to watch _Pretty Woman_!”

“Well, there she is! Do you mean like- am I supposed to fuck her and you want to watch?” Andrés frowns, but there’s a glimmer of interest in his eyes and suddenly, the room feels way smaller than before.

Martín stares at him.

“I meant the movie, Andrés.”

“What mo-... Oh. _Oh_. You mean, _Pretty Woman_?” Andrés says, his English a little thick.

“Yeah, that’s what I fucking said, _Mujer bonita_.”

“We use the English title in Spain, Martín.”

“Fuck your eurocentric mentality, then! It’s _Mujer bonita_ in Argentina!”

“How was I supposed to know that? Besides,” there’s a smile tugging at the corners of Andrés’ lips now and to be honest, it’s kind of hard to be angry at him. “Why would you even like to watch _Pretty Woman_ , of all things?”

Martín purses his lips.

“It’s fun,” he says and Andrés’ smooth laughter fills the room.

“ _It’s fun_ , look at you. Are you sure there are no other reasons?” Andrés steps closer, the smell of his cologne filling Martín’s nostrils and making his head spin. He grits his teeth.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he growls, stubborn as ever. Andrés seems even more amused.

“Maybe you find the concept thrilling, hm? _Exciting_? A rich man in a dashing suit, sweeping you out of the streets and into the life of luxury… Oh, wait,” Andrés feigns a gasp. “That’s already happened, hasn’t it?”

Martín stares at him, his lips pressed tight. Andrés takes one last step and they’re only centimeters apart, now. He leans in to whisper into Martín’s ear.

“Tell me… who paid for this hotel room, mm? Who paid for the car? The dinner? The custom-made suit that you’re wearing?”

His breath is hot against Martín’s skin and when he pulls back, Martín finds himself swaying towards him, dizzy even though he’s only had two glasses of champagne.

“If you paid for the suit,” Martín finds his voice again and licks his lips, because they’ve suddenly gone dry, “it means that it’s actually yours, doesn’t it?”

Andrés is looking at him with eyes darkened by something that is, in fact, very exciting.

“Then if you wish, I can take it off right now,” Martín finishes. His heart is pounding as he waits for a response; he’s not disappointed. Andrés breaks into a grin and leans back in, tilting his head to kiss him. Martín opens his mouth, ready to take the lips, the tongue-

A lighter clicks and they both freeze, their lips a breath apart. Slowly, they turn their heads to see the prostitute that they’ve _completely forgotten_ _about_ stretched out on the bed, taking a drag of a cigarette. She blows out the smoke, staring at them.

“Well, since you’ve already paid me, how about I just,” she gestures vaguely with her hand, “hang around and watch for a bit? Would be a nice change for me.”

**dashwood**

“This isn’t what I meant when I said I liked _Pretty Woman_.” 

Andrés laughed, low and amused, and Martín shot him a dark look. He felt stupid, standing in the middle of the small shop, his arms outstretched as the tailor flitted around him like a stinging bee, taking his measurements and pinning little needles into his arms and legs and shoulders. 

“If you’re going to continue to follow me around like a stray, you might as well look respectable,” Andrés said, tongue clicking against his teeth. "I won't be seen with a scrawny kid from the slums." 

Martín rolled his eyes. He was aiming for _offended, yet a good sport about it_ , but the effect was ruined by the warm glow that spread through his belly. Andrés was allowing him to stick around, to stay by his side for a little while longer. He wasn’t going to send Martín away, at least not anytime soon. 

It was hard to keep himself from sobbing in joy. 

Martín had been nothing when he had met Andrés a few weeks ago. A starving runaway –without hope, without a perspective in life. He had been trying to pick Andrés' wallet, only to have his hand caught in a bruising death-grip, a beartrap. Andrés had stared down at him, his expression dark and clouded, and Martín had never been so scared in his life. 

He had targeted Andrés precisely because of his bespoke suits that spoke of money, of elegance. Of large bills and credit cards. But just as he’d known instinctively that Andrés was wealthy, Martín had also known that he was dangerous. A single miscalculation on Martín's part would end in a catastrophe, a well-deserved reckoning. 

But Andrés had surprised him. He had let go of his hand, and instead of doing the reasonable thing – turning on his heels and running far, far away, eager to put a distance between himself and the big, bad wolf in a three-piece suit – Martín had found his feet rooted to the spot. Andrés had smiled at him then, an ominous thing, and Martín had felt breathless and wild and _willing_. 

(He still felt that way, weeks later. He didn’t think that it would ever fade, that he’d ever be free from it. From this band that drew him to Andrés, this thread of fate.) 

Martín cleared his throat. 

“Aren’t you afraid that I’ll look better in a suit than you?” 

He jumped when he felt the scrape of a needle against his hip bone. The dark look in the tailor’s eyes let Martín know that the prick had been very much intentional, leading him to believe that Andrés was a valued customer, a regular, and that jabs against him – however well-intended – weren't welcome. 

“I admire the confidence,” Andrés drawled. "But I can see that we'll have to work on your manners next." 

“I’m not a charity case,” Martín grumbled under his breath. "When I said that I liked _My Fair Lady_..." 

Andrés laughed, and Martín felt a matching grin steal over his features. Yes, he thought. He would never tire of this. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Andrés as the ghost between Martín & Sergio and how they bond out of grief

**dashwood**

Sergio couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this drunk. He was fairly certain that his head had never screamed at him from too much alcohol, that his throat had never burned from the sharp tang of cheap vodka, that his stomach had never churned like he had eaten something bad, something poisonous. 

He had never seen the point in drowning his sorrows, in dulling the pain. Instead, Sergio catalogued it, compartmentalized it, used it to fuel his undertakings. 

Martín was different though. Judging by the stains on his wifebeater and the empty bottles strewn around his apartment, this was a regular occurrence. It seemed like he was used to downing one glass after the other, until the pain became bearable. 

(Not that Sergio could imagine such a thing. Andrés would never slip his mind, would always hover at the back of his periphery. He _haunted_ Sergio.) 

“I miss him,” Martín whispered into the gaping silence. “Andrés was my life. He was everything to me. I would have gladly taken his place.” 

Sergio narrowed his eyes at him. He was trying to make out the look on his face, but his vision was spinning in circles, round and round and round. 

“That’s... surprising,” Sergio finished lamely. The words felt strange in his mouth, jumbling like glass marbles. “You’re an egomaniac. You’re obsessively self-centered and it’s impacting your ability to care for others. You can’t have loved him as much as you love yourself.” 

Martín barked out a laugh, and Sergio flinched at the harsh sound. The coldness. 

“Is that how you see me?” Martín asked. "No wonder you didn’t want me around.” 

“It’s the truth.” 

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Then: 

“Andrés is different," Martín said, his voice small and forlorn. He sounded like a little boy afraid of the dark, unable to make sense of the unfounded cruelty of life. “ _Was_ different. I loved him more than anything in the world. More than myself.” 

Sergio lowered his eyes, feeling his cheeks heat with shame at the sight of the raw pain on Martín's face. His chest clenched, a tight squeeze. Maybe, Sergio thought, he had done the wrong thing all these years ago.

**boom_slap**

“I wanted to die there. I’m actually pretty pissed that you’ve made them pull me out,” is what Martín says, sitting down next to Sergio. It’s a weird thing to say when everyone around them is celebrating. 

“What about Helsinki?” Sergio asks, because he’s smarter than before, he sees more than before, he understands more. He regrets not having understood earlier.

The depth of Martín’s feelings is something that he could see only after having loved Raquel; the truth about it crashed into him in Palermo, when Martín was sobbing against the person he hated the most in the whole wide world - Sergio himself. 

“What about him? He would’ve been fine. Even better off without me, I dare say. I’m sure most of them would agree.”

It’s actually terrifying to see how Martín changes. In two months, Sergio has seen him go from anger and despair to mockery, to cruelty, to breakdown, to regret, to- whatever this frightening thing before him is. 

“Do you love him?” Sergio knows the question is stupid and childish, but it needs to be asked. 

Martín sighs in exhaustion, watching as Helsinki opens a bottle of beer against the railing. 

“How the fuck am I supposed to know? It’s been two months. I haven’t gotten over- Berlín- in five years.”

“Andrés,” Sergio corrects quietly and wild fear howls in his chest again when he sees that Martín’s eyes fill with tears.

“I miss him, too,” he adds quickly, taking off his glasses so that he can rub at his eyes. “Every day, believe it or not. Andrés was-... he wasn’t-... he wasn’t just my brother, he was my friend. My only friend, really.”

“Welcome to the club,” Martín sniffs. “No wonder you were never too fond of me. But look! You’ve _won_.”

“Neither of us have, in the end.”

There’s a long silence that’s only a little bit uncomfortable. Five years ago, it would’ve been filled by Andrés, joking and telling them to stop sulking. 

The distance between them is Andrés-sized, as it has always been. Just enough so that if he were there, he would have slipped right in. 

“Why did you really keep me alive?” Martín speaks finally, but the question demands an answer that nobody deserves. Martín probably already knows it, though.

“You’re the closest thing to him that I have.”

Martín actually smiles at that. 

“You’re exactly the same to me,” he says, biting at the skin around his fingernails. There are some things about him that remind Sergio of Andrés _so much_. The dancing, the gestures, even the expressions. 

Sergio follows Martín’s distant gaze to see that he’s looking at Helsinki again. 

“What’s stopping you?” he asks, frowning. He really wants to know. He knows enough about Helsinki to realize that for Martín, the man can mean salvation. 

Martín is almost chewing at his fingers at this point, so Sergio grabs his wrist. 

“What’s stopping you?”

“... a kiss.”

“What?”

Martín turns his head to stare at him. There it is again - the misery, the longing, the exhaustion. 

“A kiss that your brother gave me,” he explains and Sergio lets out a sigh, running a hand down his face. It makes sense. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Do you think you’d be happier if you’d never met him? Because I used to wonder what would have happened to me if it weren’t for having found out about Andrés.”

“Mm. I would have been happier having never met him. But at what cost? Can you imagine not having him, even if it’s just for a moment? I never want to lose him more than I already have.”

“You won’t. I was sure I was losing him and the moment I thought about the gold, the moment I saw your face, all of it came back.”

Martín smirks, scooting closer and nudging Sergio with his elbow. 

“Good to know we both still have him then, eh?” he jokes, his laughter a little hoarse when Sergio wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him in for an admittedly awkward half-hug.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: If they raise a single finger against you, I’m going to kill them all

**boom_slap**

Andrés has fought tooth and nail for Sergio to finally concede and let Martín do the Mint heist. Now, it’s but a compromise and neither Sergio nor Martín are particularly fond of it, but it’s still better than the alternative - having to decide between the two of them.

At first, Andrés gloats, because it looks like he was right. He can control Martín effortlessly, more than that; Martín _behaves_. If you ignore a few dumb fights, he’s getting along with the team. They eat together, they study the plan together, they drink together in the evening and they even play football. Andrés loves to rub it all in Sergio’s face, laughing at his worried, pissed expression whenever he praises Palermo out loud.

The night before the heist, when he parts ways with Sergio and goes back to his room, he isn’t surprised to find Martín there, looking- no, not nervous, but restless.

Andrés closes the door and stares at his friend, looking for fear and finding only a little bit of it. He opens his arms and smiles when Martín crashes into him, hugging his neck almost too tightly.

Andrés keeps a hand at the back of Martín’s head, swaying from one foot to the other.

“Excited, my second in command?” he asks softly. When Martín answers, his tone is sharp as razors.

“Yes, but worried,” he says, muffled by his own shoulder. “You’re going to be the most exposed. Not only the police will target you, but our teammates, too. If anything goes bad, I can assure you they will want to take the power away from you.”

Andrés should’ve expected that. Martín has always had a hard time trusting people, or at least pretending to trust them. Andrés knows there will be tension. Maybe some casualties, too, who knows. That’s where his people skills come to use, skills that Martín, unfortunately, doesn’t posses.

“If they raise a single finger against you, I’m going to kill them all,” is the next thing muttered against Andrés’ neck and he holds Martín closer, staring over his shoulder at their reflection in the window, seeing just how desperately Martín is clinging to him.

He’s being serious, Andrés knows it. He would destroy everything for him. Which is exactly the point Sergio was trying to make.

Which is exactly what Andrés chose to ignore.

Which is exactly what may end up destroying Martín, too.

**dashwood**

Martín whirled around as soon as he heard the door open, throwing his arms out to keep his balance. He hadn’t gotten used to being blind yet, hadn’t gotten used to his all-consuming darkness, the absence of light and colors and hope. To the crushing sense of worthlessness that infused his whole being, that made him feel like the others would be better off without him. 

Maybe Gandia was right after all. Maybe Martín _was_ scum. 

He strained his ears, listening as the footsteps approached. Martín was almost certain that it was Andrés. There was this eerie silence, as though the air was leaning in close, hanging on Andrés' every word. Andrés had that effect on people. He could command whole rooms with just a tilt of his head, a lazy smile, a fleeting glance. 

He was mesmerizing. 

“Why did you stop me?” 

A hum cut through the silence, and Martín let out the breath he'd been holding. So he had been right; it _was_ Andrés. 

“And what would you have done, hmm? Beat at him with your cane?” There was a patronizing tone to his edge, a mocking taint. “You can’t even see, Martín." 

“I don’t need my eyes to fuck with racist bigots.” 

“It wouldn’t have accomplished anything other than losing the trust of the other hostages,” Andrés went on, ignoring Martín. “We can’t be seen bashing their heads in like uncivilized Neanderthals just because they offended our sensibilities.” 

Martín felt the anger coil in his gut, toxic tendrils streaming through his body, taking a hold of him. 

“You think it’s alright what he said? About me?” 

Nothing. The silence lingered, thickening, and Martín wanted to huff and cry, wanted to curl into a ball and wallow in self-pity. In his own worthlessness. But then he felt hands on his cheeks, strong yet gentle, and Martín sighed at their warmth, their familiarity. 

“Of course not, _querido_ ,” Andrés whispered, his thumbs brushing the line of his cheekbone just below the blindfold. His words had a calming effect on Martín; it felt like the wind had been ripped from his sails, the rage leaving his body as suddenly as it had surfaced. He felt poised, anchored. “But you know my stance on revenge and punishment. I prefer a more refined approach.” 

Martín felt the beginning of a smile tug at the corners of his lips. A feral thing, all pointed teeth and dark intentions. 

“What did you do?” 

“I had Helsinki fetch a first aid kit,” Andrés said slowly. "And then I sewed Gandia's mouth shut, so he won’t be able to spew any more of his vile diatribe.” 

A laugh tore itself from Martín's throat, raw and jarring. He should probably be disgusted, should probably push Andrés away for being a fucked-up bastard, but the truth was that this was the nicest thing someone had ever done for him. It sent a rush of warmth through him. To know how far Andrés would go to protect him, to look after him. 

It made Martín feel like he _belonged_. 

“I told you,” Andrés said, fingers brushing reverently across Martín's face, across his cheeks and lips, and lower still to grasp the column of his neck. “If they raise a single finger against you, I’m going to kill them all.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: what do you mean you want to suck my toes?

**dashwood**

“It’s like watching a train wreck,” Nairobi said, her voice filled with a combination of incredulity and lurid fascination. “With lots of fatalities. Torn limbs strewn everywhere, blood and intestines as far as the eye can see.” 

Andrés snorted into his drink. He was inclined to agree with her. Watching Martín try to flirt with a woman was... well, something. Andrés had known that Martín could be suave in his seductions, cocky and confident. Playful, even. He had always been kind to Andrés' wives, welcoming them into their life with bright smiles and encouraging words. 

But this was decidedly different. Andrés could only imagine that it was because of the way the woman looked at him, her lashes fluttering, her smile shark-like yet patient. As though Martín were a shy creature, easily spooked. 

Originally, the plan had been for Andrés to seduce the head of security of a little bank in Madrid. To charm her long enough so she’d let her guard down, allowing Nairobi and Martín to break into her car and steal the blueprints for the bank’s next security features. The whole affair was supposed to give them a head start on their next robbery. 

But as was so often the case with fate, their plan had been thwarted when the woman had taken one good look at him, and dismissed him. She had turned up her nose, mustering his three-piece suit with a disapproving look that seemed to say _I know your kind_. 

Andrés would have taken offense at that, if it hadn't been for her next words. 

“I’m not interested,” she had said in a cold tone. “Your friend though. The one with the cute smile... Send him over?” 

It wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot. Martín had cursed and sputtered, his expression wrought with panic. _You’re really whoring me out_ , Martín had hissed at him, eyes blazing and the corners of his lips turning, snarling to expose the sharp edge of his canines. 

In the end, Nairobi had shoved him out of their booth, and Andrés had watched as Martín sidled up to the woman, a forced smile plastered across his face. He looked uncomfortable, _self-conscious_ , and Andrés didn't miss the way he flinched whenever the woman reached out to run her hand along his label, her touch lingering. 

Andrés felt his chest constrict with guilt. Hot and sharp, blurring the edges of his vision with black static. This was wrong. Martín shouldn't be doing this, not if it hurt him. Not if it made him feel used and cheap and broken. It wasn’t worth it. 

“Wait,” Nairobi’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. “Why is he coming back—” 

Martín poured himself onto the bench, pressing close to Andrés as though seeking his reassurance. His protection. 

“She wants me to suck her toes,” he hissed, his eyes ripped wide-open. “I don’t understand straight people. What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

“Wow,” Nairobi said with a snort. “She’s really into you, huh?” 

Martín ignored her. His eyes were glued to Andrés' face, dark and imploring. He looked so small and helpless, and Andrés felt something tug at his heart, little strings of red thread twisting into his flesh, pulling and plucking and straining. _Aching_. 

“Nothing,” Andrés said, watching as Martín's shoulders slumped in relief. “We’re leaving. The Professor will have to come up with something else.” 

Nairobi protested, clearly unhappy with his decision, but the grateful smile on Martín's face let Andrés know that he had made the right decision.

**boom_slap**

Martín is feeling hot all over - Andrés’ touch always makes him turn into a whimpering mess within minutes.

“Talk to me,” he breathes out, needy and desperate. Andrés stops biting at his neck and pulls away slightly, tilting his head to the side.

“What do you want?” he asks, running his hands down Martín’s sides. “Is this not enough for you?”

He grinds his hips down, pushing Martín into the mattress, making him groan and arch his spine.

“It is, but I want- I need- more,” he manages, panting, grasping desperately at Andrés’ back.

“And you’re saying you’re into dirty talk?” Andrés purrs, a predatory grin spreading over his face.

“It’s just- your _voice_ ,” Martín all but moans, because Andrés’ deep, raspy baritone is always driving him crazy with want.

“Ah, I see. You want me to dominate you even more, is that it? You want me to call you a _good boy_ , maybe?”

Martín gasps quietly and Andrés lips return to his neck, his hands unbuttoning Martín’s shirt.

“You’re only five years younger than me and yet, you want me to be your _papi_?”

“ _Pa_ \-- what?”

“What if I told you I wanted to paint you like one of my French girls?“

“Andrés.”

“What if I told you I wanted to suck on your toes ?”

“What do you even mean you want to suck on my toes?!” there’s a hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest as Andrés pulls away and grabs one of his feet, baring his teeth.

“What if I told you I wanted to spread your legs like butter on toast?”

That does it - Martín bursts out laughing. He sits up and tries to get away, but Andrés is still gripping his ankle, grinning, his eyes shining.

“What if I told you-”

“You’re dumb.”

“-I wanted to eat-”

“I hate you _so much_.”

“-your ears?”

Martín is almost crying at this point, as Andrés lets go of his leg and crawls closer to bite playfully at his ear.

“You’re the worst.”

“You love me precisely because of that,” Andrés whispers. “Get used to the dirty talk and come up with your own. Sergio is coming over next week and if he doesn’t leave the place traumatized, then what’s the point?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I don’t dream anymore

**boom_slap**

“Daydreaming?” Tatiana asks softly, smiling when Martín tears his gaze away from Andrés and looks up at her. 

The man shakes his head and gestures for her to take a seat on the grass next to him. She does, watching as Martín wraps his arms around his middle protectively, leaning back against the tree. 

“I don’t dream anymore,” he says, making her frown. 

“That sounds awfully depressing, you know that?”

His mouth twitches and he shakes his head again. 

“It’s not. Not really. Do _you_ daydream?”

“Of course I do,” she says lightly, playing with the seam of her dress. 

“What about?”

“About Andrés, of course. About what the wedding is going to be like, about our next vacation, about everything that we’re still going to do.”

Martín hums and nods. Tatiana reaches out and puts a hand on his back and when he doesn’t move away, she moves it to his arm and slides it into the crook of his elbow, letting her head fall onto his shoulder. He does nothing to return the affection, but he’s letting her be so close, and that’s already a win. 

“Why?” she asks, assured that he’ll understand, and he does. 

“There’s no point. I used to dream about having him, but that's impossible, so why bother? I would go mad,” he says and even when he’s talking about such heartbreak, his voice is steady, the tone conversational, _casual_. “Instead, I’ve learned - and believe me, I’ve had a lot of time to learn - that it’s better to just appreciate everything I already have.”

Tatiana takes one of his hands into both of hers, stroking with her thumb. They're rough and calloused, but warm, strong, pleasant to touch. Andrés' are thinner, his fingers longer, elegant, his touch cold and soothing. 

“I suppose you have more of him that I ever will,” she murmurs, watching as Andrés gestures vividly, talking to Sergio. 

“That depends. Maybe you’ll have a chance to learn what he’s like when he has a cold, although I don't wish that upon you. You’ll get to see him drunk out of his mind, and furious, and you’ll learn everything about his food preferences. You’ll learn how to recognize every mood, every slight change in his expression. Once you have all of that, you’ll have more of him than I do, because I’ll never get to know what his lips feel like. That’s okay,” he shrugs when she opens her mouth to offer comfort. “It’s just not meant to be. It never was.”

She goes quiet, holding on tighter. After a moment, Andrés walks over to them. 

“Martín, have you changed your preferences? Are you trying to steal my fiancée?” he asks, his tone playful, and it doesn’t escape her attention how he addresses Martín first, how he’s looking at _him_ , waiting for him to play along. 

Martín looks up, eyes filled with gratitude and adoration. 

“Yes,” he grins, bringing her hands up to his lips and kissing them, making her roll her eyes fondly because, really, Martín never disappoints when he’s expected to bring humor to the table. He always responds just the way Andrés wants him to. “I’m stealing her away and you’ll be left alone, bitter and miserable.”

“You’re breaking my heart,” Andrés sighs dramatically, sitting down in front of them. Tatiana smiles and gives him on of her hands, which he takes, interlocking their fingers. He smiles at her but she doesn’t miss the fact that their joined hands are resting against Martín’s knee. 

It’s a weird mixture of a relationship, what they have. However, she figures that Andrés is definitely the most greedy thief of the three of them. 

**dashwood**

The air crackled with electricity. 

It must be the humidity, fortifying the current running through his veins. His fingers were itching with overflowing energy, tiny sparks dancing across his skin like lightning bugs. 

It was unfair, Martín thought as he turned his head to look at Andrés, how his superpower had turned out to be a thing of kindness. It was an asset, generous and giving. Granted, his whole skin tingled whenever he discharged electricity, but the pain was bearable – nothing but a slight tickling sensation. 

Andrés, on the other hand... 

Martín had never seen him so disheveled. Andrés had always gone to great lengths to make himself look presentable, as respectable as possible. He donned three-piece suits like bespoke armor, not a single hair out of place. Which was why the shell of the man lying next to him was such a frightful sight, causing Martín's heart to sink with barely-contained commiseration. 

Andrés' face looked sickly pale, his eyes devoid of his usual zeal and passion as he stared unblinking at the ceiling. 

To see him like this broke Martín's heart. 

If they could switch places, if Martín could snap his fingers and trade his gift for Andrés' pain, he would do it in an instant. Gladly. 

“Just a few hours, Andrés," Martín begged. “You can’t stay awake forever. You’ll have to give in sooner or later, just please—” 

“Martín." Andrés’ voice was soft, and yet his tone brooked no arguments. “Drop it.” 

“You’re going to kill yourself,” Martín said, rolling onto his side. He could feel the desperation rushing up inside of him, wild and wanting. “Look, I’ll be right here. I’ll wake you up if it becomes too much. Let me take care of you—” 

Andrés _whined_ , and Martín's skin crackled with electricity – a defense mechanism, the urge to _protect_ setting his nerves aflame and causing sharp bolts of lightning to shoot through his veins. 

“I see them in my dreams,” Andrés said. He sounded so raw and unpolished, fatigue slurring the edges of his words into a thick mass. “If I don’t sleep, I don’t dream. If I don’t dream, I don’t see their faces.” 

He took a shuddering breath, and Martín watched as his eyes fluttered shut. 

“They’re looking at me, their features twisted in agony. Like grotesques. I see how they’re going to suffer, how they will _die_. Nairobi—” 

Andrés cut himself off, and Martín was left to wonder what he had seen in his dreams, what the future held in store for Nairobi. It must be a gruesome fate, if it unsettled Andrés this much. 

“Martín," Andrés whispered. He sounded small and forlorn, a scared boy. “What if I see _you_?” 

Martín didn't have an answer for that. There were no false promises, no heartfelt reassurances. There was nothing he could offer Andrés, and so he moved closer and tucked his head under Andrés' chin. Andrés' arm wrapped around his shoulder immediately, pulling him closer – as if _Martín_ were the one in need of comforting. 

Closing his eyes, Martín burrowed further into Andrés' side and held on for dear life. He listened to the sounds of his breathing evening out, and waited for the screams to start. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: mi gato es su gato

**dashwood**

“Come on in.” 

Martín's whole body was thrumming with nerves as he led Andrés into his flat. He felt oddly like a schoolboy bringing his crush home for the first time. His heart was thudding and his palms felt clammy with sweat. He wanted to impress Andrés, he realized. To assure him that he had made the right decision in giving Martín a chance. 

He had felt drawn to Andrés right from the start. He had looked so out of place in the shabby student bar, the elegant cut of his three-piece suit clashing with the run-down décor, the arrogant tilt of his head at odds with the easy-going party folks around them. 

And yet he had been nothing but kind to Martín, had smiled and nodded and listened indulgently as Martín had rambled on and on about his MA thesis. Andrés had acted as though Martín were interesting, as though he was worth listening to. 

No one had ever made him feel like that. Like he wasn’t a worthless piece of scum. 

“It’s nothing special,” Martín said quickly, the words turning into a jumbled mess in his rush to get them out. His accent thickened when he was excited or nervous, and so he took a deep breath to calm himself. To school his features into a mask of careful nonchalance. "I’m just staying here until I find a job.” 

Andrés didn't say anything. He was still looking around, and Martín tried not to cringe when his eyes lingered on the pile of dirty clothes in one of the corners, the dirty dishes stacked mile-high in his sink, the weird stains on his walls. 

Martín cleared his throat. 

“Would you like a drink? I have tequila or beer...” He trailed off, mentally kicking himself for not being able to offer Andrés something nicer. An expensive wine. Or a clean glass. 

“And who is that?” 

Martín's head snapped around at the cooing tone, and his eyes followed Andrés' outstretched hand to the cat sitting on his windowsill. 

“That’s Tesla,” Martín said. "He came with the flat." 

Andrés' lips twitched into an amused smile, and something settled inside Martín's chest. A glowing orb, warm and pleasant. 

“May I?” Andrés reached for the cat, his hand hovering in the air as he waited for Martín's permission. 

“Yes, of course.” Martín nodded. “ _Mi_ _gato_ _es_ _su_ _gato_.” 

As soon as the words had left his mouth, Martín groaned internally. He was such an idiot, a colossal fool. Andrés would realize it any moment now. Would tell him that this had been a mistake, that Martín had been nice enough company for an evening, but that they had best part ways now. Andrés would move on to greener pastures, to conversational partners who were more eloquent, more refined, more knowledgeable. 

Who didn’t make lame jokes about their cats. 

“Say Tesla,” Andrés hummed as he scratched the cat behind his ears, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “How would you and your _papi_ like to come to Europe with me?”

**boom_slap**

Andrés is not some heartless monster. He loves the idea of love and he keeps looking for it, he keeps dreaming about romance and whenever he falls for a woman, he does everything to make their lives into a fairytale.

But, sadly, the women don’t seem to appreciate it.

When Vittoria breaks up with him, Andrés finds himself sad, of all things. He failed to notice her growing, incomprehensible distaste towards him and he was still very much into their fantasy when she decided to break his poor heart.

On his way to Martín’s apartment - where he hopes to find two perfect cures for heartbreak, which are booze and Martín himself - he gets drenched in rain. It’s very fitting, he decides, so he doesn’t run or hide from it. He’s miserable after all, so why not let the world paint him into a picture of misery.

When he arrives in the building, he finds the door to the flat locked. Great, he thinks. It means that Martín is probably hooking up with some guy that’s decidedly too stupid and too ugly for him.

However, Martín’s absence has never been a problem when it came to entering his apartment. Andrés picks the lock swiftly and walks into the familiar space. He frowns when he detects a strange scent. It’s been awhile since he’s been over at Martín’s, so maybe it’s just his imagination.

He’s proven that he’s not imagining things when he sees a pair of round eyes staring at him from the couch. They belong to a cat - a small, scrawny thing. God, how could Martín have gotten a cat? He can barely feed himself, let alone another living thing.

The cat meows and runs away. This is why Andrés doesn’t like animals. His charming words don’t work on them, because they don’t understand shit.

Andrés goes to the kitchen and finds an already opened bottle of cognac. He takes a swig from the bottle, Martín-style, before pouring himself a glass. Then, he goes through Martín’s records, deciding finally on a depressing enough Jacques Brel. He puts it on, stretches out on the couch and drinks, wallowing in self-pity.

Maybe half an hour later, he’s about to get up and get himself another glass, when the cat jumps onto the couch and has the audacity to climb onto Andrés’ chest. His face is almost turning into a scowl, but then he notices that the brown thing has very pretty eyes - blueish, a little bit like Martín’s. And since it came to him, and since it’s warm, Andrés runs a hand down its back. The cat purrs and stretches, and Andrés smirks, letting it walk all the way up to his neck where it curls up.

He places one of his hands on the cat, fingers curling in its fur, and closes his eyes. The quiet purring and the sound of rain against the window, along with Brel’s crooning makes him doze off quickly. 

What wakes him up is a cold hand against his forehead. He opens his eyes and sees Martín, his expression soft.

“Hey,” he says. “I see you’ve met Tango.”

The cat is still warm against Andrés’ shoulder and his neck.

“He came to me,” Andrés murmurs, as if he was trying to explain himself for some reason.

“How could he not? I don’t mind you breaking in and petting my cat. _Mi casa es su casa y mi gato es su gato_.”

Martín gets up from his knees and takes off his jacket. When he moves away, the cat immediately jumps down and starts rubbing against his calves, meowing loudly. Martín clicks his tongue.

“Quiet, you furry bastard, I have food for you.”

He takes the cat to the kitchen and comes back alone.

“Vittoria?” he asks and Andrés nods, sighing. Martín leans down and gently touches Andrés’ arm.

“ _Puedo_?” he asks and Andrés nods. This is what he came for, after all. He pulls himself up on his elbows so that Martín can take a seat on the couch, then lowers himself back down, letting his head rest in Martín’s lap, closing his eyes when he feels the gentle fingers in his hair. 

“She’s an idiot,” Martín says, voice soft. “It’s her loss, really. You’re going to find someone much better.”

“Maybe I should get a cat,” Andrés says, catching Martín’s wrist so that he can nuzzle his hand. He opens his eyes and sees blue eyes staring back at him.

Clearly, Andrés is not bad with wild animals, since he’s already domesticated one. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: fake wedding

**boom_slap**

"Why are we getting fake married again?” Martín asks, fixing the cuff of his suit. Andrés takes a moment to properly look at him and he can’t keep himself from smiling. Martín looks beautiful in a dark green suit. It’s perfectly cut and it makes his eyes stand out, which was Andrés' exact intention when he's picked it out. 

“Because, my dearest friend, getting married on an exclusive cruise ship means that everyone here will get drunk and we’ll rob them all by dawn and then escape once we arrive in Casablanca at 5 in the morning. Also, because you’re my most trusted companion. And finally, because everyone here seems to think we’re a couple anyway.”

Martín heaves a sigh.

“ _Fine_ ,” he groans and Andrés grins, downing his champagne before getting up and offering Martín a hand. Martín takes it, scowling, and they head out to the deck. Just before they walk out, Martín puts a fake, but convincing smile on his face. Andrés realizes that he must've schooled his face like this numerous times already. 

The deck is beautifully decorated with flowers and fairy lights. The sun is going down and the other passengers are already enjoying some early beverages, their loud chatter mixing with the music. Martín leans in when he sees some of their associates in the crowd.

“What are they doing here?” he asks in a whisper and Andrés smirks.

“They’re here to help with the heist, of course.”

“Alr- Sergio, too?”

Andrés puts a hand on Martín’s waist and pulls him closer, winking at his brother as they walk past him. Sergio looks nervous, which is hardly any news.

“Well, he’s been to all of my weddings, this one is no exception. He got on board in Gibraltar, while we were busy with infiltration,” Andrés murmurs. Martín purses his lips, but nods.

The wedding goes smoothly and Martín bravely holds Andrés’ gaze throughout it. Andrés can see the emotions in his face; it’s a whole spectacle of pretense and truth hidden underneath, coming to the surface in the way Martín’s breath hitches.

Finally, the moment comes where they have to kiss. Andrés takes a deep breath, his hands coming to rest against Martín’s neck. The whole ruse is about to be over and he finds himself both excited and, surprisingly, slightly nervous. He closes his eyes and kisses Martín and - _he’s sure_. When he feels his lips, feels how Martín all but melts against him, when he tastes him for the first time - he’s sure that he’d made the right call.

He’s been planning this for weeks, ever since he’s realized that he couldn’t ever imagine his life without Martín in it. It was a gamble, since he’s decided not to tell him anything before. Not to try anything before. 

He pulls Martín closer, lets his hands slide down and wrap themselves around his waist. He deepens the kiss and Martín is kissing right back, hungirly, lovingly, with years of pent-up longing.

Finally, they break the kiss, the other passengers cheering and clapping, clearly having enjoyed the show. Well, who wouldn't? 

Martín is tearful; there’s a shy, desperate hope in his eyes as he clings to Andrés’ arms.

“There are two sets of papers I’ve had prepared for us,” Andrés whispers, his heart pounding against his ribs. “One of the sets is fake. The other one is real, though.”

Martín’s eyes are wide. Slowly, he shakes his head.

“ _No way_. You’re joking.”

“I’m really not.”

“... are we still stealing though?”

God, Andrés loves him.

“Of course. I’m always serious about love and business.”

Before he can say anything else, his arms are full of Martín again and his mouth is busy kissing him.

Andrés can’t wait to tell him about the honeymoon he’s planned in Argentina.

**dashwood**

“Tell me.” 

Andrés smiled as he turned to face Martín. The sunset was painting his skin in a lovely hue of red and pink, gifting him with a sun-kissed glow that made him shine like an invaluable jewel. His eyes were closed, and if it weren’t for the fact that he had just spoken up, Andrés would have thought him to be asleep. He looked so peaceful, so content. 

_Happy_. 

Andrés turned back to the sea. 

“We would have to invite the others,” he began, following the same script as always. It was an old dance, and by now Andrés knew the steps by heart. "I couldn't care less about Tokyo, but I would want my brother there. And I suppose you’d like Helsinki to be your best man.” 

He paused, and as always, Martín hummed in a quiet confirmation. 

“We’d have the ceremony right here on the beach. At sunset. You look breathtaking in this light, like a work of art. I can never get enough of the sight. I can never get enough of _you_ , Martín." 

He heard the air hitch in Martín's throat, the sound filling Andrés with warmth. 

“We’d hire a professional musician. The old man who plays guitar on the town square in the next village. He would play our song, and I’d pull you close. I’d remind you of the day we met, how I asked you to come to Europe with me. I’d tell you that you are the most valuable thing I have ever stolen, that you’re my soulmate, a part of myself. That I love you.” 

A comfortable silence settled over them, broken only by the soft rustling of the evening breeze, the rhythmic up-and-down of breaking waves. 

“Are you sure that you don’t want me to propose?” 

“No,” Martín said, but Andrés noted that his answers had started to sound hesitant, _uncertain_. It wouldn’t be much longer now, Andrés thought to himself. He could feel the velvet box resting in his suit pocket just above his heart, the weight heavy and comforting. He’d wear Martín down eventually. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: where did Martín go at Andrés' wedding when left for a while after looking like a kicked puppy during Berlín's singing

**dashwood**

Martín stared at the bed in front of him with dead eyes. He felt empty, as if someone had reached out and carved him up, hollowing him inside out. There was nothing left inside of him. He was working solely on autopilot as he spread the rose petals onto Andrés' bed, painting the white linens with little specks of crimson. 

Slowly, he brought one of them up to his lips, the velvety texture soft and warm, before dropping it onto the bed. Soon enough, the petals would brush against Andrés' bare skin like a lover’s kiss. Maybe Andrés would spare him a thought then. _Martín is such a delightful little thing_ , he would think. _So thoughtful, so good to me._

_Martín._

He had briefly considered renting a hotel room for the night, to give the happy couple some privacy. To get away from the monastery, from the thin walls and echoing chambers. There was only so much he could do before he’d break, irreparably. 

But the sad pathetic truth was that this was as close as he’d ever come to being with Andrés. Fate had reduced him to a voyeur, and he embraced this role with boyish eagerness. Martín knew that when the time came, he’d lie in bed, wide-awake, straining his ears to listen to the sounds of Andrés' moans, his breathless chuckles. Martín would cherish them like a precious treasure, would cling to them with trembling hands. 

Even if it broke him.

**boom_slap**

Martín doesn’t make it far - he walks into one of the old corridors and presses his forehead against the cold stone. 

He feels like the worst trash. 

First of all, he should be used to this. There’s no explanation for the hot tears gathering in his eyes, because he’s been through this _four times_ already. What’s the fifth? He knows the drill by now, he knows all about it; the beautiful outfits, the flowers, the food, the drinks, the vows, the rings, the first dance and even the singing. It’s nothing new. 

Second of all, he prides himself in his love, considers it true, exactly because it’s been unrequited for almost ten years and he still stays around. Andrés can always count on him, he’s loyal like a dog, always ready for a conversation, a drink, a smile, a glance. He loves him quietly and tells himself that he doesn’t expect anything in return - so why does it hurt him so much to see Andrés happy? He should be happy, too.

A revelation hits him, then, and he has to put a hand to his mouth to muffle his sobs. _Of course_. It hurts _precisely_ because it’s the fifth time, _precisely_ because it’s been ten years. Martín can romanticize it all he wants, but the truth is as follows: he’s pathetic. He's clinging to a hopeless love, he's letting his heart be torn over and over again and he can’t force himself to leave. Hell, he doesn’t even _try_. 

He must’ve been pathetic right from the very beginning, because how else could Andrés ignore such love? It’s impossible that he doesn’t see it, even though Martín is careful, it must be seeping through every gesture, it must be spilling out of his mouth even if it doesn’t form itself into a declaration. It must be washing over Andrés, time and time again, because Martín is _drowning_ in it. 

He sinks to his knees, biting down on his hand even though it doesn’t stop the whimper that escapes his throat; it echoes in the corridor, reminding Martín, not for the first time either, that when it all comes down to it, he’s alone. 

With well-trained determination, he forces his body to detach itself from his thoughts; he forces his breath to be regular again; he forces his shaking muscles to tense up and he knows that once he’s back in his bed, the tension will be gone and he’ll be shaking again, and his bones will hurt for having kept it together for too long. For now, though, he needs to go back outside. He needs to put on a good show. Maybe if he drinks enough, he’ll at least manage to have some fun. 

As he pulls himself up and walks back out and into the courtyard, he wonders which is worse: a love that is refused, or one that is accepted, but not returned. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: established relationship Belermo have to take young Sergio in after his father dies

**boom_slap**

Martín has only ever been to one funeral in his life. It was his aunt’s, back in Buenos Aires, when she’d overdosed on cocaine. Not exactly a nice service, since half of the mourners were high and the other half, hateful. It was a good show, though.

“If I ever die, just throw me out with the trash,” he says, struggling with the tie. Andrés sighs and walks over to tie it for him. There’s a small smile playing on his face.

“I like the _if_ part,” he murmurs and Martín grins, leaning in for a kiss. When they break away, Andrés nuzzles the side of his face.

“I’ve had the full custody papers forged.”

“Good,” Martín says. He doesn’t like children, but Sergio is bearable. He’s way too smart for his own good and way too awkward to be actually annoying.

Still, Martín has his doubts. They’re way too young, after all, and they are, well, criminals. That’s a good recipe for fucking up a kid. Martín doesn’t voice any of his concerns, though. He knows Andrés far too well for this. Besides, Sergio is nothing like a regular child anyway. 

The funeral is a depressing fucking thing, if Martín’s ever seen one. The only ones attending are the three of them and the fucking police, the bastards who have killed Sergio’s dad, making sure that if any of his associates show up to pay their respects, they will be immediately arrested.

Martín keeps his hand fisted tightly in the back of Andrés’ jacket, in case he decides to do something stupid. He’s nervous, too - he’s never comfortable around cops and he’s pretty sure that he’d once decked one of them during an escape. _Oops_. Good thing that Andrés made him cut his hair shorter and fed him well enough that he’s no longer as scrawny as he used to be.

He looks at Andrés, at his burning eyes and at the way he has both arms wrapped loosely, but possessively around Sergio’s neck. Martín’s gaze focuses on Sergio, then, and he can’t help but smirk at the same fire in the kid’s eyes.

After the burial, they still have some time before Sergio has to go back to the hospital, so they take him to their flat.

“So,” Andrés says, showing him around. “Your bedroom will be waiting for you once you’re discharged. We can renovate it together, if you want?”

“Sure,” Sergio shrugs. Andrés nods and goes to the kitchen to get them something to eat, so Martín sits down on the bed, watching Sergio closely. He's been brave, but he's so pale, so _fragile_ , even if his lips are curled in determination. 

“Look,” Martín says, “I’m sure it hurts like hell, but we’re going to be okay, yeah?”

“I just want them to pay,” is what Sergio says, making Martín grin.

“Sure you do. Me too. And Andrés. We’ll make them pay.”

They eat in silence and by the time they’re done, Sergio is clearly exhausted. He looks absolutely miserable in his black suit that no kid should ever be forced to wear. On their way back to the hospital, Andrés picks Sergio up and carries him, which probably isn’t something you’re supposed to do with a twelve year old, but Martín doesn’t know shit about children, so who’s to say.

What he knows, is that in one, two years, Sergio is probably going to be taller than both of them. Soon, he’s going to be a teenager and they will be able to teach him all that there is to know about vengeance.

Martín has once heard that all parents supposedly want to protect their kids from the cruel world. Well, _fuck_ that. He knows for sure that him and Andrés are going to teach Sergio how to bite right back at it.

**dashwood**

Martín blinked. 

“Andrés, _querido,_ " he yelled over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving the scrap of a boy currently sat at their kitchen table. “Who’s the duckling?” 

The boy stared back at him, dark and defiant. The intensity of his gaze unnerved Martín. The kid looked barely fifteen, and yet there was a hardness to his features that spoke of a fair share of loss and hardships. 

He looked familiar, too, and Martín wondered if they had crossed path before. Maybe they had run into each other on the street, back when Martín had still been picking pockets to survive. The boy looked the part anyway, too thin and sickly. 

Unloved. 

Behind him, Andrés strolled into the kitchen. Martín watched as he tousled the boy's hair, smiling fondly down at him. The kid just grimaced and pushed his glasses up his nose, but Martín didn't miss the pleased look that flashed across his features. 

“I see you have met Sergio,” Andrés said. "Sergio, this is Martín." 

“Martín," the boy echoed, as if committing the name to memory. He seemed polite, at least. Eager to please. “Are you a friend of Andrés'?" 

Martín squared his shoulders. The kid probably meant no offense, but Andrés was the only thing Martín took pride in, the only thing he valued more than life itself, and he'd be damned if he let anyone diminish their special bond, their connection, their _love_. 

“I’m his _boyfriend_.” 

“Oh.” The boy nodded, his cheeks aflame. He seemed bashful, shy even. Easy to tease. It would be endearing if Martín wasn't still so baffled by the whole situation. By the fact that there was a scrawny, unaccounted-for kid in their kitchen. 

Martín glanced at Andrés. 

“So,” he said, his tone prompting. He was hoping that Andrés would fill in the blanks. "We're taking in strays now? No offense, little duckling, but I've been lobbying for a pet for a while now." 

“Don’t be rude, Martín. Sergio isn't a _pet_ ," Andrés said, rolling the word around his tongue, clearly offended by the mere notion. "He's my brother." 

“Your brother?” Martín echoed, taken aback. Andrés had never mentioned any siblings, had barely spared a word about his parents – the father who had abandoned him, and the mother who he _wished_ had abandoned him. 

“Well, half-brother,” Andrés said with a shrug of his shoulders, a tilt of his head. “But one shouldn’t nit-pick about family or pretty women.” 

Martín ignored him. Instead, he let his eyes run over the boy’s features. Now that he knew of their familial connection, he saw the similarities. The dark eyes, the elegant curve of the chin, the rounded tips of the ears. 

The boy must have mistaken his scrutiny for hostility. He scrambled out of his chair, his head ducked. 

“I can leave. I don’t want to trouble you. Andrés shouldn't have brought me without talking to you first,” he said, clearly feeling out-of-place, _unwanted_. Martín knew the look, had seen it on the face in the mirror countless of times. The pain and resignation etched into every line, the empty eyes. 

He sighed. 

“Of course not, _hermanito_ ,” Martín said, making sure to keep his tone soft and warm. “You’re welcome to stay with us.” 

The boy’s shoulders slumped in relief. He didn’t even pretend to put up a fight, and Martín felt a pang of sympathy for him. For the poor kid from Argentina Sergio reminded him of. 

“See, I told you Martín wouldn't mind.” Andrés sent him a grateful smile over Sergio's head. They would have to talk about this later, of course. Hash out the details, the what and how. But for now the only thing that mattered was Sergio’s well-being. They had to show him that he was welcome, that there was a Sergio-shaped space left to be filled in their home. 

“I’m starving,” Martín declared, clapping his hands together. "Who wants pizza?" 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: dancing

**dashwood**

“It’s a wedding dance. There’s no need to leave room for Jesus.” 

The dance teacher pushed Martín into Andrés' arms, until their chests were pressed together. No room for Jesus, indeed. Martín could feel the warmth of Andrés' body seeping through his clothes, could smell the heady notes of his aftershave, could feel the low rumbling of his chuckle deep inside of him. 

It was torture. 

“Shouldn’t you know how this works by now?” Martín asked in a last-ditch attempt to distract his racing heart from the fact that Andrés was holding him close. That he was looking down at him with such fondness in his hazel eyes that Martín could almost fool himself into thinking that it was _him_ Andrés was marrying come morning. “This isn’t your first wedding, after all.” 

Andrés tutted at him, the sound dark and disapproving. 

“Are you suggesting that there’s no need to make a fine impression at my own wedding? No, Martín, what kind of husband would I be if I stepped on my wife's feet during our first dance? That wouldn't bode well for the wedding night." 

“No,” Martín ground out, biting the inside of his cheek. He hadn’t needed the images Andrés' careless words had put into his impressionable mind – white linen sheets peppered with rose petals, soft music and dimmed lights, hands running across the expanse of naked skin, eager and exploring. Andrés smiling down at him in reverence, lips parting to whisper _Martín, mi_ _esposo_ — 

Martín cleared his throat. 

“Your dancing is up to par,” he said, flustered. “Meanwhile, I’m being corrected at every fucking turn.” 

As if on cue, the teacher returned to their side to manhandle Martín once again. Pushing and pulling at his shoulders until his posture resembled that of a ‘doe-eyed debutante’. Lovely. 

“You can’t blame the poor woman,” Andrés said once the teacher had flitted over to the next couple. "You're usually much more handsy than this." 

Martín's brows shot up to his hairline, indignation coiling low in his gut. Oh, he knew a good challenge when he saw one, and the glint in Andrés' eyes was as close as he’d get to throwing down the gauntlet. 

“You want me to show you my Argentinean spirit, hmm?” He said, wetting his lips with his tongue. “I’ll show you hot-blooded and passionate.” 

Andrés smiled down at him, dark and predatory. It was all the invitation Martín needed. He closed the distance between them, pressing their hips together and tucking his head underneath Andrés' chin. Andrés' sharp exhale ruffled the hair at the crown of his head, and Martín closed his eyes as he suppressed a moan. 

Being allowed so close to Andrés, to be held in his arms so intimately... 

It was pure bliss. 

“ _Now_ you’re getting it,” the dance teacher said as she circled past them. “If you dance like that, I can guarantee you that your wedding will be a success. What a lucky couple.” 

Andrés didn't correct her, and Martín turned his head to hide his smile in the crook of his neck. It felt oddly like vindication. 

Like hope. 

**boom_slap**

Some people danced for fun, some danced out of passion, some only danced when drunk and some did when it was socially required.

Martín danced to escape.

When he was a child, he would run away from home and dance with people on the streets, learning the moves, learning how to feel rhythm, how to let the music flow through his veins and how to control its current.

At some point, he figured he could even earn some money like that. He was a scrappy, miserable little thing, but dressed in a clean shirt and dancing for the tourists, he looked just the right amount of adorable, pitiful and funny to have them throw him some pesos.

When he was a teenager, he realized that the best possible treatment for a split lip was another mouth on his. He would sneak out to nightclubs, running through the streets like a rat, the air hot, wet and sticky on the back of his neck. He would burn his throat with alcohol and cigarettes, getting numb, and when it wasn’t enough, he would stumble to the dancefloor.

When he walked, his movements were clumsy, but once he began to dance, his muscles moved by memory, and he made himself look inviting, open, _vulnerable_.

He didn’t really care that much whose hands and lips were on him, he only wanted to be desired, to be held, to be fucked, finally, and left on the dancefloor again, until morning, until he had to face the world again only to wait for another night, for another chance to dance and forget.

Dancing made him feel happy, and careless, and free. It could be hot and intense, but silly, too, and when he was in college and found some people he liked, he would go out with them and move like Elvis or Travolta, making them laugh.

He’s never laughed as hard as when he danced with Andrés, though. They would compete in coming up with the most ridiculous moves, they would drink wine and play all kinds of songs, and dance, and dance, and dance until they couldn't anymore, and then they would lie down on the floor, panting, smiling so hard Martín’s cheeks hurt.

“In 1518, in Strasbourg,” Andrés had said once, “a bunch of people danced themselves to death.”

Sometimes, Andrés would pull him close, wrap an arm around him and spin them both around, or sway lightly, making Martín dizzy, making him fall in love again and again.

Making him feel warm all over.

Then it was all over, and Martín was cold and dead, and soon, Andrés was dead and cold as well.

Martín still danced, though; just like when he was a child, he danced to escape, he danced like a madman, he danced on his own grave, danced a _danse_ _macabre,_ like the crazed crowd of Strasbourg.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Martín can see ghosts and falls in love with ghost!Andrés. Bonus points for ghost!sex
> 
> WARNING: there is no ghost sex because both of us have still some self-respect

**boom_slap**

They say that ghosts linger on Earth whenever they have any unfinished business. It’s definitely true for Andrés who was unfortunate enough to get shot, multiple times, while pulling off the second-best heist in the world.

His unfinished business is the best one.

He’s surprised when he awakes in the Mint, though; the greatest heist in history was nothing but an idea, after all, one that he was obsessed with, sure, but also one that has never been figured out. It’s a mystery, an equation with no solution that nobody was smart enough to work through. So why in the hell would it tie him to the Earth, Andrés doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to deal with it, either, _without a body_ , invisible, trapped inside the Royal fucking Mint of Spain.

The Mint is under construction work, having been partially destroyed by their various shenanigans. One of the people there is a man is his thirties, in a dress shirt that looks funny while he’s also wearing a yellow hard hat. He had nice, blue eyes - Andrés notices because they’re looking straight at him.

He frowns and takes a few steps to the left. The man’s gaze follows him and that, well, that is _something._ He floats upstairs and waits in one of the corridors; the man finds him there.

“I know you,” he says. Andrés notices that he’s Argentinian. “You’re Berlín. No, wait- _Andrés_ , is it?”

Andrés nods, stupefied, because why isn’t the man scared like he should be?

“Shouldn’t you be supervising the work downstairs?” he asks and the man shakes his head.

“Nah, if they fuck up, that’s their fault; my plans never fail. I’m Martín, by the way. I would shake your hand, but that’s not exactly possible.”

Andrés snorts and Martín takes a seat on the floor, cross-legged, so he does the same.

“Why can you see me?”

“I have no idea. I’ve been able to see dead people since I was a child, so. That’s why I’m not freaking out.”

Andrés hums. Interesting.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Martín says then and there’s a mischievous grin on his face. He winks and Andrés grins right back at him.

At the end of the day, Andrés follows Martín to the hotel, confusing him greatly.

“What?” he asks, floating around the room.

“Nothing,” Martín says, watching him from the bed, chewing on a sandwich he bought on the way from the Mint. “It’s just-... ghosts are usually attached to a place, or an object. They don’t just… roam around cities. They focus on whatever holds them back from, you know. _Moving on._ ”

Andrés smirks, eyeing Martín. He seems smart, confident, playful…

“There is something holding me back. Maybe you’d be interested.”

Martín turns out to be very much interested. When he hears about the Bank of Spain plan, his eyes light up in delight.

The first step is contacting Sergio, because he should still have some of Andrés’ folders on the Bank tucked away somewhere; it’s not an easy task. It’s a challenge and if Martín meets it, it means he’s worthy.

Andrés knows where Sergio is, so they find him without much trouble and luckily, Martín is able to stand the pressure of a gun against his temple. He talks quickly, spilling information that only Andrés would know until Sergio believes him.

Then, Andrés’ heart breaks a little when Sergio cries and apologizes, when Martín holds him as he shakes with sobs-

“Tell him I’m okay, tell him it wasn’t his fault, tell him I love him.”

And Martín does.

The man is a fucking genius, Andrés realizes when he watches him work in his home in Palermo.

He solves equations like it’s nothing, he’s positively _buzzing_ with ideas, he’s not afraid of _anything._ He becomes obsessed with the plan, working on it non stop, barely leaving his flat. Whenever he’s not working out a mathematical problem, he talks to Andrés, asks for his opinion; their conversations are easy, fascinating, consuming.

At some point, Andrés notices the way Martín looks at him; with adoration and love. It’s nice, he thinks, reveling in the attention.

“God, I wish I could touch you,” Martín says one night, having drunk two bottles of wine when he got frustrated after not being able to figure out how to get everyone out of the Bank without having to sacrifice somebody. “You’re beautiful.”

“ _Martín_ ,” Andrés smiles softly, sitting down on the floor next to him. To tell the truth, he would like to be able to touch Martín, too; he’s always been affectionate, he would love to ease the tension out of his shoulders, to stroke his cheek and tell him just how brilliant he is. How wonderful.

Martín is falling apart. He barely sleeps.

“I don’t want to disappoint you,” he says.

It takes Andrés almost two years to figure out that it wasn’t the plan that bound him to the world of the living; it was Martín. They were meant to meet. They were meant to find each other.

“Martín,” he tells him. “Take a break. Have you ever been to Florence?”

They go to Florence; they go to Paris, and Berlin, and Andrés shows Martín his favourite places.

“Take me to Argentina,” he asks, and they go to Buenos Aires, where Martín dances and sings and drinks. People take him for a madman that talks to himself and stares off into space, the look in his eyes haunted and feverish as he gazes at Andrés.

Andrés doesn’t know what to do; he’s ruining Martín, but he can’t leave. He can’t have him giving everything up for the plan, either.

They’re both stuck.

A year passes, and Sergio arrives in Palermo.

“Of course,” Martín says when asked about the Bank plan, and Andrés shakes his head.

“ _No_ ,” he hisses, but Martín doesn’t listen.

When Sergio leaves, Andrés is yelling, but Martín ignores him. Martín ignores him, but Andrés is so angry, he grabs him by the shoulders and spins him around to face him. It’s the first time he’s managed to touch him. Martín stares, his eyes wide, hands going up to touch where Andrés had grabbed him in awe.

“You can’t do this, I know what you’re thinking, you _can’t_ ,” he shouts, but Martín only smiles longingly.

“I’m already half dead anyway,” he says.

**dashwood**

Martín wasn't a religious man. Despite his mother’s attempts to beat the Catholic fate into him, his thoughts on the esoteric were surprisingly tame. Ghostly apparitions and hauntings from beyond the grave? Fine, to each their own. Things that go bump in the night? Most of them could easily be traced back to a rational explanation, creaking floorboards or the wind a-knocking on rusty window frames. Angels and demons and everything in-between? No. 

Grim reapers? An image of gnarled bones swathed in black robes popped into his mind, ominous leers and scythes glinting in the moonlight. Which was decidedly different from the reaper currently sat at his kitchen table. 

The thing wore Andrés' face. It looked like him, spoke like him, even drank his Darjeeling like him. And yet it wasn't him. Because a person was the sum of their dreams and memories, but this Andrés was blank, like an empty canvas. 

Martín had found him on the streets of Palermo. He had been out on one of his bi-weekly runs to the liquor store, the level of whiskey-tequila-scotch inside his bottles being the only thing that marked the passage of time. He’d been drinking himself into oblivion each night, trying to trick his mind into forgetting that Andrés had left him. For good. 

Or at least that was what Martín had thought. Until he had caught a glimpse of velvet – black like a starless night. He’d almost broken his neck in his hurry to take a second look, to allow his eyes to feast on the elegant profile that haunted his dreams, the warm eyes and curved lips. 

Martín's heart had done a backflip, his face splitting into a wide grin. He'd been impossibly hopeful then, feeling – for the first time in _months_ – that life was good, that it was worth living. In that moment, he had forgotten all about his mangled soul, about the pain Andrés had put him through when he had let go of Martín's hand and watched, impassive, as Martín tumbled backwards into hell. 

Before he’d known what he was doing, his feet had carried him across the street and towards Andrés, eager to enter his gravitational orbit once again. Martín had been so sure that Andrés was there for _him_ , that he'd returned to him. That they could be together, at last. 

But when he had been close enough to grab the sleeve of Andrés' jacket, Martín's stomach dropped. He couldn’t explain it, but a feeling of crushing dread had washed over him. A sense of wrongness. 

Andrés had stopped in his tracks and slowly turned around to look at him, confusion darkening his expression. There hadn't been any recognition in his eyes, though. As if Andrés had forgotten all about him (and Martín had wanted to snarl then, had wanted to scream and hiss and bite like a feral thing, because how _dare_ Andrés forget him when he haunted Martín's restless mind). 

They had stared at each other, the moment stretching like a cosmic rubber band as the steady stream of market-goers parted around them, too occupied with their own lives to pay any attention to the two men suspended in time, feet toeing the brink. 

At last, Andrés had opened his mouth. 

“You can see me?” 

That had been the moment when Martín's life had changed irreversibly. When _he_ had changed. Changed from a man who scoffed _phh_ _, humbug_ at things like grim reapers and the afterlife and second chances, to someone who _believed_. 

With a yawn, Martín slumped into the seat across from Andrés, cradling his cup of coffee in his hands. 

“Anything good?” 

He leaned forward, peeking at the black envelopes strewn across the kitchen table between them – as if he could decipher the ancient runes and symbols etched onto them. They were the death dates of the people Andrés would have to reap that day. A name, a time and place, and the exact circumstances of their demise. 

So far, Andrés hadn't allowed Martín to tag along, but he could only imagine what it would be like to have Andrés escort him to the other side. The knowing smile, the warm eyes, the calm demeanor. It was easy to trust Andrés, wholly. 

“A car crash on main street,” Andrés said without looking up, and Martín’s gaze was drawn to his fingers as they sorted the envelopes into two stacks. “A fatal accident at the docks. A domestic fight.” 

Martín picked up one of the envelopes at random. The texture felt strange, sort of velvet-y, and the runes pulsated like liquid moonlight. It was almost as if they were a breathing, living thing. 

“Why do you think...” He trailed off, unsure what he meant to say. “Do you think everyone is turned into a reaper after they...” 

He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. Not when the image of Andrés wading through a hail of bullets was still so fresh in his mind, in his _heart_. 

“I don’t think so,” Andrés said. He didn’t seem to mind talking about it, but Martín still felt guilty for bringing it up time and again. "I think of it as a penance. For what I’ve done while I was alive. To repent my crimes.” 

“For breaking into the Mint?” 

Andrés didn't answer right away. Instead, he pursed his lips in thought, eyes clouding over. Martín knew that he didn't remember any of it. Andrés hadn't even remembered his own name until Martín had returned it to him (when he had yelled it at the top of his lungs in a busy marketplace, hands fisting in Andrés' jacket as if to keep him from leaving him, again). 

“No,” Andrés said after a moment, his expression somber. "There must be more to it. I think I might have done something worse. Something unforgivable.” 

His words were like a punch to the stomach. They were so innocent, naïve even. And yet each one of them was brimming with poignance, so much so that Martín could almost fool himself into believing that Andrés remembered him. That he remembered what he had done to Martín. That _Martín_ was the reason for his penance. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Martín said, turning back to his coffee. "For what it's worth, I'm just glad to have you back." 

Andrés didn't say anything, and Martín chose to read his silence as concurrence. It was better than the truth: that this Andrés didn’t care for him, just like the last one. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: jump  
> (TW for a panic attack in the first one)

**dashwood**

Martín felt like throwing up. 

He could taste the bile rising up inside his throat, could feel his mouth run dry. His heart was racing and his mind was reeling, bombarding him with hot-white flashes of his childhood: the mocking laughter, the harsh pain, the overwhelming sense of worthlessness. 

He wanted nothing more than to shove the fucking jump rope back at Paula and tell her to leave him alone, preferably forever. But he knew that wasn’t how you spoke to children – not if you wanted them to turn out alright, anyway. 

“I don’t want to play your stupid game,” he ground out instead, his jaw clenched. His knees were trembling, shaking like a leaf, and it took him a Herculean effort not to run away and hide under his bed like a scared little boy. 

It didn’t help that the others were staring at him as if he’d grown a second head. They were probably wondering what the hell was wrong with him, if Sergio had been right to call him _a danger onto himself and others_. 

(It was easy for him to say, Martín thought with a bitter smile. He doubted that Sergio’s mother had tied _his_ feet to the garden fence with a jump rope, leaving him out in the rain for hours.) 

“Pretty please, Tío Palermo?" 

“I said _no_ —” 

“I’ll play with you.” 

Martín jumped at the sound of Andrés voice, right beside him. Unlike him, Andrés' expression was soft and indulgent as he smiled down at Paula. He looked every part the loving uncle, and Martín wished that he could fit into this picture-perfect family. That he could fit into Andrés' life. 

Paula gave them a toothy grin before grabbing the other end of the rope and bouncing off, one-two-three meters away until the rope lay stretched out between them like a poisonous snake. 

Martín didn’t need to look up to know that Andrés was staring at him, searching his face. He felt his cheeks flush with shame, burning bright. He hated for Andrés to see him like this. Reduced to a pitiable mess, haunted by the remnants of his broken past— 

The rope started to move, flapping around the palm of his hand like a dying fish. Martín held the handle tight, focusing on the way the rope cut through the air in large circles, like a merry thing. 

“Jump!” Paula said, her voice filled with excitement. Martín’s eyes snapped away from the rope just in time to see Andrés step into its circle with effortless elegance. 

He should look ridiculous, skipping rope dressed to the nines in one of his customary three-piece suits, and yet he made it look surprisingly dignified. He avoided the rope each time, delighting Paula who was giggling like she was having the time of her life. 

Martín had to admit... it actually looked like fun. 

Slowly, the tension faded from his shoulders. He could even feel a grin tugging at the corners of his lips, and when Andrés met his eyes, Martín offered him a shaky smile, a silent _I’m alright now_ and _thank you_. 

Andrés responded with a sharp nod of his head, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he turned back to Paula. 

“What do you think, can your Tías Nairobi and Tokyo do better?" 

There was an offended uproar, a playful guffaw sounding from the sidelines, and before Martín knew what was happening, the two women had joined Andrés, all elbows and tipsy giggles. 

Martín watched them, his heart filled to the brim with love and hope and happiness. 

**boom_slap**

Do you know how stealing (even accidental, as was the case) from a mafia boss ends for most poor fuckers? They get shot, cut into pieces and fed to whatever animals available (most probably pigs), not necessarily in that particular order.

How it ended for Martín Berrote, however, was _he got recruited into the fucking mafia_ instead. How was that possible? Don’t ask Martín Berrote, because he has no idea.

Once they - Helsinki and Oslo, as he knows now - have beaten him up properly, they’ve dragged him before the majesty of their leader. Now, it’s pretty embarrassing to admit, but Martín’s first thought was that he would gladly drop to his knees and suck that man off. Not the most dignified first instinct, but the man - _Berlín_ \- was unbelievably handsome; dark suit, dark hair, dark eyes which commanded the room with a single glance. Long, elegant hands; when he moved a finger, Martín was brought closer.

“You have one minute,” Berlín had said back then, his voice deep and almost hypnotic.

Martín has no idea what possessed him to start babbling like an idiot. Thinking back now, maybe it was the feeling that he wasn’t going to make it anyway, and the anger at the idiocy of the whole situation. Whatever the reason, he started his monologue with _how the fuck was I supposed to know_ , closely followed by _maybe you should’ve put someone smarter in charge_ and a series of similar accusations about the nature of mafia organisation, peppered with multiple uses of _la concha de tu madre_ and finally, he ended his speech with _why is a Spaniard in charge of the mafia in Buenos Aires anyway_.

When he was done, he really thought he was _done,_ as in: most definitely dead. Shockingly, he made Berlín laugh wholeheartedly.

“Name a city,” Berlín had said and Martín didn’t hesitate, although he couldn’t understand _shit_. Maybe it was due to a concussion, because his head was pounding and his ears were ringing.

“Palermo.”  
  


Of course, getting recruited is one thing, becoming a full-fledged member is another. As it turned out, the mafia had its stupid _trials_ , the first being, of course, winning a fist fight.

Of fucking course, they’ve put him against Oslo. Now, no one has said anything about knives not being allowed, so Martín, being a street rat that he was, kept one in his boot and the fight ended with a quick stab to the side.

He got booed by the audience, obviously, as they patched Oslo back up, but when he looked over at Berlín, the man was smirking, his eyes glinting dangerously, _excitedly_.  
  


The second trial happened a few weeks later and Martín wasn’t surprised when he found out he had to kill someone. The thing was, he was already getting used to dressing up in expensive suits, and hanging out in luxurious clubs, and getting to spend time around Berlín, drowning in his eyes, drinking in the words that left his mouth, trying his hardest to impress him and sometimes, getting a smile in return.

So, Martín shrugged, took the gun, hunted his victim down and shot them in the head.

It was actually quite thrilling.

He made quite a mess, some of the blood splattering over his face, but Moscú and Estocolmo have picked him up from the scene of the crime and drove him all the way to Berlín’s mansion, where the man himself wiped some of the blood from Martín’s lips with his thumb.

“Oh, _Palermo_ , what a nice boy you are.”

Now, the time has come for the third and final test. Martín stares down at the city lights, the usual nocturnal sounds of Buenos Aires muffled to his ears. It’s only him and Berlín there, on the roof of a high-rise building, the cool wind tugging at their hair.

Berlín is standing close and Martín can smell his cologne, he can almost feel the warmth of his body and then, his breath ghosts over the shell of Martín’s ear as he whispers, voice smooth and heavy like velvet.

“Jump.”

Martín freezes. After a moment, his head turns slowly towards Berlín. He looks into those beautiful eyes that seem black and bottomless like the night sky. He searches them and maybe it’s just his crazed, helpless, enamored mind, but he can swear he sees something loving there.  
  
  


Helsinki takes a drag of his cigarette.

“One hundred that he will,” he says and both Nairobi and Tokio stop staring out of the window to gawk at Helsinki instead.

“ _What_? Are you kidding me?” Nairobi laughs. “Nobody in his right mind would ever do that. I’m surprised that Berlín keeps up the charade. He just loves tormenting people, doesn’t he?”

Tokio nods, taking the cigarette out of Helsinki’s fingers and putting it to her own lips, looking up again.

“Yupp,” she says, popping her tongue. “Remember how Denver broke down? He was crying for an hour straight. I wonder how he looked up there, Berlín has stretched out his trial for a long while back then.”

“Yeah,” Nairobi smirks, almost sentimental, staring at the top of the building. “I got scared, too, he’s just- _Motherfucker_!”

Both her and Tokio yelp as a figure falls from the rooftop, rocketing down, one, two, six, ten, fifteen floors until it hits the safety net at their level, stretched out between the two buildings.  
  


They get Palermo out of the net and Helsinki fixes his dislocated shoulder. The crazy bastard is grinning the whole time and when Berlín walks in, all heads turn in his direction.

“Well,” he says quietly, his eyes not leaving Palermo. “Someone get my new right hand man something stronger to drink.”


End file.
